Article: 216358 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: uchinews!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!howland.erols.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: Varnast Karnassos <<>> Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien Subject: E-Text: Book 3, Chapter 3 - The Uruk-Hai Date: Sat, 05 Aug 2000 20:00:34 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 800 Message-ID: <8mhrp1$ct$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 193.113.185.136 X-Article-Creation-Date: Sat Aug 05 20:00:34 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 5.0; Windows 98; DigExt) X-Http-Proxy: HTTP/1.1 ts-cluster-A[C0A81E08] (Traffic-Server/3.0.6 [uScMs f p eN:t cCMi p s ]), 1.1 x53.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 193.113.185.136 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDv_karnassos Xref: uchinews rec.arts.books.tolkien:216358 I suppose some apology should hbe made for the tardy nature of this work... for in some measure it is my fault, not Tribimat's, that things turned out as they did. As Trib has no internet access ATM, it was my job to act as watchdog until he returned home. I THOUGHT he would have sufficient time to return, but 'Two Pages' Brady caught me off-guard. Never mind, for here is... Chapter 3: The Uruk-Hai by Tribimat Pipsqueak lay in a dark and troubled dream: it seemed that he could hear his own small annoying voice echoing in black tunnels, calling ‘Frodo, Frodo! Gimme that biscuit!’ But instead of Frodo hundreds of hideous, nasty, mean and vicious goblin-faces grinned at him out of the shadows, displaying bridgework that made him cringe. Where was Morrie (and his dentist’s drill) when you needed him? He woke. Cold air blew on his face. He was lying on his back. Evening was coming and the sky was growing dim. He turned and found that the dream was little worse than the waking, except that he had shut up. His wrists, legs and ankles were tied with string. Beside him Morrie lay, asleep, with a knotted handkerchief over his face to keep the flies off. All about them sat or stood a great company of goblins. Slowly in Pipsqueak’s aching head memory pieced itself together and became separated from dream-shadow. Of course: he and Morrie had run off into the woods leaving Boromir™ to the goblins; they had run a long way screaming – he could not remember how far or how long, his mind having blanked out that rather embarrassing detail; and then suddenly they had crashed into the same group of goblins, having described a perfect circle: they were standing listening to Boromir™ play his horn, several beating a syncopated rhythm on nearby trees and swaying appreciatively to the mellow tones. The goblins did not appear to see him or Morrie until they had drawn their swords and given five of them Bywater smiles*. Then they yelled and dozens of other goblins had sprung out of the trees (literally), but they did not wish to fight, and only tried to stop the hobbits from killing any more by grabbing hold of them, even when Morrie drew a miniature repeating crossbow from his waistcoat and started shooting them in certain parts. Good old Morrie! Then Boromir™ finished the jazz number and started playing one of Schoenberg’s lesser-known works: this slew many of them and the rest fled. But they had not gone very far on the way back when they were attacked again, by a hundred music critics at least, some of them very scathing, and they hurled an acid rain of sarcastic reviews: always at Boromir™. Boromir™ had blown his great horn till the woods rang, and at first the critics had been deafened and had drawn back; but when no answer but the echoes came, they knew they had no full orchestra to contend with and attacked more fiercely than ever. Pipsqueak did not remember much more. His last memory was of Boromir leaning against a tree, muttering something about them all regretting it when his debut album was released; then darkness fell suddenly. “I suppose I was knocked on the head,” he said to himself. “Knowing Morrie, I doubt he got hurt. What has happened to Boromir™? Why didn’t the goblins try to kill us? Why am I here? What is 2+2?” He could not answer the questions. He felt cold, sick, stupid and hungry. “I wish Gandalf had never persuaded El Rond to let us come,” he thought. “What good have I been? Just a nuisance: a passenger, a messenger, a mariner that should have tarried in Arvernien, a piece of luggage. And now I have been stolen and I am just a piece of luggage for the goblins. I wonder if I’m insured? I hope Strider or someone will come and claim us! But ought I to hope for it? Won’t he just cash in on the policy and forget about us? I wish I could think of a less depressing metaphor!” He struggled a little, quite uselessly. Whoever had tied this string was an expert with ligatures (which made him think of Sam and his family’s skill with rope, something that had proved especially useful to the Bywater lynch mob when they strung up three Shiriffs who were in the pay of the Grumbleguts family), and also knew that he was about as strong as Bree-land lager. One of the goblins sitting near laughed and said something to Morrie in an abominable accent with ridiculous- sounding vowels: Morrie chuckled sleepily. “Rest while you can, you frightful little oik,” he said then to Pipsqueak in the Common Speech, which he still managed to to make almost as bizarre as his own language. “Rest while you can! We’ll find a use for your feeble little legs before long. You’ll wish you had none before we get back to Tower. Not used to a brisk cross-country run, I expect.” “If I had my way, you’d wish you were expelled now,” said the other. “I’d make you squeak, you pathetic squib.” He stooped over Pipsqueak, bringing his yellow, uneven fangs close to his face. He wore a purple tie with a crest on it, and had a cane with a long, whiplike switch in his hand. “Lie quiet, or I’ll tickle you with this,” he hissed. “Don’t draw attention to yourself and disturb your betters, or I may forget my orders. Curse the Guards! Cedríc in glasshouse the bootless Aruman-tick handman blood”: he passed into a long angry speech in his own tongue that slowly died away into muttering and snarling. Terrified Pipsqueak lay still, though the pain in his head and bladder was growing and the stones beneath him were boring into his back. To take his mind off himself he listened intently to all he could hear. There were many voices round about, and though goblin-speech sounded at all times full of hate and argot, it seemed plain that something like a quarrel had begun, and was getting hotter. To Pipsqueak’s surprise he found that much of the talk was intelligible; many of the goblins were using ordinary language. Apparently the members of two or three quite different schools were present, and they could not understand one another’s clique-speech. There was an angry debate concerning what they were to do now: which way they were to take and what should be done with the ‘new boy’. “There’s no time to initiate him properly,” said one. “No time for tradition on this trip.” “That can’t be helped,” said another. “But why not enrol him quick, enrol him now? We’re in a hurry. Evening’s coming, and we ought to get a move on if we don’t want to lose house points and face the Run.” “Orders,” said a third voice in a deep growl. “Kill all but not the Halflings; they are to brought back uninitiated as quickly as possible for extra credit. That’s my orders.” “What are they wanted for?” asked several voices. “Why uninitiated? Are they good at sport?” “Not likely: they look about as promising as Johnson minor. I heard that one of them has got something, something that’s wanted for the Season, some elvish plot or other. Anyway, they’ll both be interviewed.” “Is that all you know? Why don’t we search them and find out? We might find something that we could use ourselves: some drinks, or some weed, or something like that.” “That is a very interesting remark,” sneered a voice, softer than the others but more evil. “I may have to report that. The new pupils are not to be searched or molested: those are my orders.” “And mine too,” said the deep voice. “Alive and as recruited. That’s my orders.” “Not our orders!” said one of the earlier voices. “We have come all the way from the Mines to kill, and avenge our shocking loss on points. I wish to kill, then go up north.” “Then you can wish again,” said the growling voice. “I am Cedríc. I am the senior prefect. I return to Guard School by the shortest road.” “Is Aruman the headmaster or the Great Eye?” said the evil voice. “We should go back at once to Tower.” “If we could cross the Great River, we might,” said another voice. “But there are not enough of us to venture down to the bridges, and these new boys won’t have got their Swimming colours yet.” “I came across,” said the evil voice. “A winged Nazdaq awaits us northward at the East Bank: he’s just calling in a few of Pater’s debts.” “Maybe, maybe! Then you’ll fly off with the new pupils, and get all the kudos and house points for Tower, and leave us to hike as best as we can through the golf-country. No, we must stick together. These lands are dangerous: full of foul parvenus and new money with no form.” “Yah, we must stick together,” growled Cedríc. “I don’t trust you little Mines House swine. You’ve no standards outside your own sties. But for us you’d all have run away. We are the Uruk-Hai prefects! We destroyed the confidence of the great musician. We recruited the new boys. We are the pupils of Aruman the Wise, the White Hand Gang. We came out of Guard House and led you here, and we shall lead you back by the way we choose. I am Cedríc. I have spoken.” “You have spoken more than enough, Cedríc,” sneered the evil voice. “I wonder how the masters would like it in Tower. They might think that Cedríc’s neck needed relieving of a prefect tie. They might ask where his strange ideas come from. Did they come from Aruman, perhaps? Who does he think he is, setting up on his own with his filthy white House badges? They might agree with me, with Clarénce their trusted bridge club secretary; and I Clarénce say this: Aruman is a fool, and a dirty treacherous fool. But the Head has his Eye on him. “Swine, is it? How do you boys like being called swine by the muck- rakers of a dirty little Chem master?” Many loud yells in goblin-argot answered him, and the whispering swish of canes being brandished. Cautiously Pipsqueak rolled over, hoping to see what would happen. His guards had gone to join in the fray. In the twilight he saw a large goblin, probably Cedríc, standing facing Clarénce, a short crook-legged creature with no chin. Round them were many smaller goblins. Pipsqueak supposed that these were the ones from the North. They had drawn their canes and wet towels, but hesitated to attack Cedríc. Cedríc shouted, and a number of goblins of nearly his own size ran up. Then suddenly, without warning, Cedríc sprang forwards, and with two swift strokes caned the hands of two of his opponents. Clarénce stepped aside and vanished into the shadows. The others gave way. “Boys, put those canes away or I’ll thrash you,” snarled Cedríc. “And let’s have no more nonsense! We go straight west from here, and down the stair. From there to the downs, then along the river to the forest, then three laps around the playing field. Along the Cadet Training Course and back to Guard House in time for prep. That clear?” The goblins were getting ready to begin the cross-country run again, but some of the Northerners were still unwilling, and the Guards prefects caned two more before the rest were cowed. There was much confusion. For the moment Pipsqueak was unwatched. His legs were securely bound, but his arms were only tied about the wrists, and his legs were in front of him. He could move them both together, though the bonds were cruelly tight. He tried gnawing through the string, then remembered the knife that Morrie had convinced him to wear up his sleeve ‘just in case’. He waved his arms in what he hoped was an inconspicuous, I’ve-got-cramp sort of way until the tiny blade worked loose from its sheath: the edge snicked his arm, and then slid down his wrist. Pipsqueak whimpered: he hated the sight of blood, particularly his own, but steeling himself he drew the knot of the wrist-cord up and down against the blade of the knife. The string was cut! Quickly Pipsqueak took it in his fingers and knotted it again into a loose bracelet of two loops and slipped it over his hands. Then he lay very still. “Pick up those new boys!” shouted Cedríc. Don’t play any tricks with them! If they are not in alive when we get back, it’ll be detentions and the glasshouse all round till someone owns up. Remember the good name of your House and school.” A goblin seized Pipsqueak like a sack, tied a horrid brown tie round his neck, grabbed his arms and forced him into a disgusting green blazer with gold piping; then it gave him a good kick “for your own good, you detestable midget” and picked him up by the ears while others swished canes meaningfully. Morrie yawned, got up and put on the uniform with every appearance of enthusiasm: the goblins were almost deferential to him. Pipsqueak looked at Morrie in horror, as he suddenly realised who must have hit him over the head, and tied those knowingly mocking knots. Morrie glanced at him, and smirked. Pipsqueak shut his eyes and slipped back into evil dreams. Most of them involved Morrie and sharp implements. Suddenly he was thrown onto the stony floor again. It was early night, but the slim moon was already falling westward. They were on the edge of a cliff that seemed to look out over a sea of pale mist. There was a sound of water falling nearby. “The scouts have come back at last,” said a goblin close out hand. “What a relief,” hissed another, and the sound of water ceased. “Well, what did you discover?” growled the voice of Cedríc. “We had to destroy a couple of villages to get them, sir, but we’ve got enough feather beds for the senior prefects, and breakfast for the entire cross-country party. All’s well now.” “Now, I daresay. But how long? You fools! You should have kept a few of the yokels alive to carry the beds for us. Now we’ll just have to leave them here. Damn you all to hell!” “Yes, sir,” said the scout. A shadow bent over Pipsqueak. It belonged to Cedríc. “Sit up!” said the prefect. “My bloods are tired of lugging you about. We have got to climb down, and you must use your legs. Be a man now. No crying, no slacking, follow the principles that have made Guard House old boys great. Let’s see if you make the grade in one of our smaller tests, shall we?” He cut the string round Pipsqueak’s legs and ankles, picked him up by his ears and stood him on his feet. Pipsqueak fell down, and Cedríc dragged him up by his ears again. Morrie laughed. Cedríc thrust a flask between his teeth and poured some burning liquid down his throat, while the goblins chanted, “Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!” Pipsqueak managed to drain the whole bottle, and the goblins cheered. Cedríc looked impressed. Pipsqueak felt a hot fierce glow flow through him. The pain in his legs and ankles vanished. He could stand, although walking in a straight line proved surprisingly difficult. “Where’s mine?” Morrie demanded. Cedríc glowered and looked about to draw his cane, then thought better of it and signalled for another flask. Morrie looked him in the eye, then unstoppered it and positively guzzled the contents. The goblins were flabbergasted. “These Halflings are damned good drinkers, I’ll say that for them,” one of them muttered, sipping gingerly at an alcopop. Morrie stood up, looking calm and relaxed, as though being proffered drinks by goblins was nothing out of the ordinary. “Where do we get bed and breakfast?” he demanded. “Do I look like a scout?” Cedríc snapped. “Ask them, it’s none of my business.” “Suit yourself,” Morrie said languidly. “But I don’t expect my father will be very pleased once he hears that I haven’t been treated well. Why, he may even choose to withdraw his generous donation to the Guard House trust fund…” Pipsqueak could hardly believe his ears (which were now throbbing and approximately three times as big as they had been at the start of the ‘cross-country run’). Morrie’s father was notoriously tight-fisted (he was known as Sorrowduck Snatchgold, or ‘Sorrie’ for short) and in addition had not been seen by anyone outside his family for three years: Gaffer Gamgee had voiced a commonly-held opinion that ‘young master Morrie’ had been rather previous in assuming control of the household, resigning himself to the notion with the phlegmatic observation that ‘it won’t matter one whit when the Revolution comes, you mark my words’. Yet here was Morrie using his father’s alleged munificence as a bargaining tool with the creatures of the Enemy, and getting away with it! He watched Cedríc back down with a muttered apology and a summons to the nearest scout to give ‘Mister Brandybuck’ all the information he wanted. The scout promised obsequiously that “you’ll get bed and breakfast all right, sir, more than you can manage.” “I doubt that,” Pipsqueak said out loud, and was caned for speaking out of turn. The party began to descend a narrow ravine leading down into the misty plain below. Morrie and Pipsqueak, separated by a dozen or more smaller goblins who were busily toadying up to the new boy who could cheek Cedríc the Guard blood and get away with it, climbed down with them. At the bottom they stepped onto grass, and Pipsqueak’s heart rose: he could feel the fine-trimmed green of a golf course of Rohan under his feet, and he remembered the old story about Bandyknees the Bullshitter and King Golfball the goblin, drawing confidence from the connexion with the hobbit who walked off with the first Masters trophy with a staggering 61. He then remembered that the Bullshitter had been lynched by a distinctly biased crowd, and that Golfball had given his name to the sport for a very good reason, and suddenly felt a lot colder. “Now straight on!” shouted Cedríc. “West and a little north. Follow Eustáce. Let’s trample their precious golf courses a little, that’ll be a good prank, eh boys?” “But what are we going to do at sunrise?” some of the northerners asked. “We shall sing the school song, give three cheers for the Headmaster and Aruman his Deputy, and cane Plowman Minimus for picking his nose and eating it when he thought no-one was looking,” Cedríc replied promptly: Pipsqueak could see how he had ended up as senior prefect. “Then go on running. What do you think? Sit on the green and wait for the nouveaux riches to tee off?” “But we can’t run in the sunlight: we have allergies, and sick-notes from our parents.” “You’ll run with me behind you, you loathsome slugs,” said Cedríc. “Allergies? You pathetic frogspawn make me sick, with your excuses and your weak chests and your heart conditions. No wonder Guard House has thrashed you in every game of rugger for the last eighteen seasons. You’re not fit to wear those ties, you hear me? Now get out of my sight. Allergies, my foot!” He raised the aforementioned extremity and booted the nearest northerner into a bunker. It was then that Pipsqueak noticed that, like hobbits, the Guards pupils wore no shoes, and that their feet extruded little studs, and were toeless, being fitted with steel toecaps instead. Then the whole company began to run with the long loping strides of goblins. They kept no order, thrusting, jostling and cursing: several goblins got studded in the confusion, and elbows were used without mercy. This was clearly an important run, as the prefects from each house went up and down the line, beating those among their fellows who could not match the pace. Pipsqueak, who was far back in the line hiding among a group of no-hopers and hoping that Cedríc would not spot him, gathered that an important trophy was at stake. He could not see Morrie. He wondered how long he would be able to go on at this pace: he had had no food since the morning. But at present the goblin-liquor (‘ghash-water’ as they called it) was still hot in him. Every now and again there came into his mind an unbidden vision of the fat face of Strider bending myopically over a dark trail, and waddling, waddling behind. More vivid, however, was the image of the gigantic five-headed hamster waving a sickle and singing “My Balrog lies over the ocean” out of tune, and he began to sweat profusely and shiver at the thought of its evil little eyes and its malicious whiskers. They had gone only a mile or so from the cliff when the course sloped down into a wide shallow depression, where the ground was soft and wet: the goblins busied themselves knocking down the boundary fence. The dark shapes of the goblins in front grew dim, and several were swallowed up. “Damn it all! Quicksand!” shouted Cedríc from the rear. Pipsqueak could stand it no more. If the quicksand did not swallow him up, the mutant hamster certainly would. He swerved aside to the right, and fell headfirst into the mist. “Come back here, you snivelling little toerag!” Cedríc roared. Pipsqueak sprang up and ran screaming, divesting himself of his clothes as he ran. “This’ll shake that monster of the scent a little!” he reasoned. He tore off his tie and blazer, then threw away his waistcoat and undid his silver belt, which began to deliver a tinny rendition of “Happy birthday to you” in Elvish. He moved to take off his trousers, but long arms and hard claws seized him and he came to his senses. Strangely, the goblins refrained from punishing him, and he found himself regarded with a degree of awe by the northerners; even the Guards left him alone. “I don’t know why I did it,” he whispered to Morrie, who was now jogging next to him. “It seemed to make sense at the time.” “You’ve got guts, I’ll say that for you,” Morrie replied. “Either that or you’re even dafter than I thought. Haven’t you heard anything about public schoolboys? Still, I imagine they’ll leave you alone for now. I may make a Took of you yet, cousin!” “What do you mean?” Pipsqueak demanded. Morrie smiled, but said nothing. Neither Pipsqueak nor Morrie remembered much of the latter part of the journey, since they were treated to copious quantities of Ghash-water by their fellow runners. They veered, and zigzagged, and fell over, but if they halted or stumbled they were picked up and carried by the northerners, who had unofficially adopted them. The Guards prefects scowled, but said nothing. There was still no sign of Clarénce. The warmth of the latest flask had gone, and Pipsqueak was sick again. Suddenly he fell face downwards on the turf. An hour and a half later, the company noticed he was missing and sent a party back to retrieve him. Whatever kudos his panicked streaking had won him evaporated: he was carried in a sack and darkness was about him. “I’m suffocating in here!” he yelled, but to no avail. Dimly he became aware of voices clamouring: many of the more unfit goblins were demanding a rest. Cedríc was shouting. He felt himself flung to the ground, and he lay as he fell, until black dreams took him. At three in the morning the company was woken by cries of “Clowns are climbing through the window!” and an irate prefect kicked the sack until Pipsqueak was silent once more. Slowly he came back to the waking world with a bleeding nose and bruised ribs. Orders were shouted (he heard Morrie bellow “Ten bacon sandwiches!”) and he was tipped out and thrown roughly on the grass. There he lay for a while, fighting with nausea. His head swam, but from the heat in his body he guessed that he had been another draught. His vision blurred. A scout stooped over him and flung him some bread with a strange, oddly-coloured circle of meat in the middle. He ate the sesame seed bun hungrily, but not the meat: he was famished, but not yet so famished as to eat a hamburger, the flesh of he dared not guess what creature. He sat up and looked about. Morrie was not far away. They were by the banks of a swift narrow river. Ahead mountains loomed: a tall peak was catching the first rays of the sun. A dark smudge of forest lay on the lower slopes before them. There was no sign of any giant hamsters. There was much shouting and debating among the goblins; a quarrel seemed on the point of breaking out again between the northerners and the Guards. Some were pointing back away south, and some were pointing eastwards. One was pointing up in the air, but he was caned and desisted. “Very well,” said Cedríc. “Leave them to me then! If you want to throw away what we’ve come all the way to get, throw it away! I’ll look after it. Let the Uruk-Hai look after it, as usual. If you’re afraid of the Whiteballs, run! Run! There’s the forest,” he shouted, pointing ahead. “Get to it! It’s your best hope: it’s out of bounds. Off you go! And quick, before I knock a few more teeth in, to put some sense into the others.” No-one appeared to understand the last part, but they said nothing. There was some cursing and scuffling, and then most of the northerners broke away and dashed off, over a hundred of them, running wildly along the river towards the mountains and showing more athletic prowess than they had demonstrated in the entire journey up to that point. The hobbits were left with the Guard House contingent: a grim dark band, four score at least of large, muscular, bone-headed jocks with great canes and short tempers. A few of the larger and bolder northerners remained with them. “Now we’ll deal with that little rat Clarénce,” said Cedríc; but some even of his fellow Guards were looking uneasily southwards. “I know,” growled Cedríc. “The cursed polo-players have got wind of us. But that’s all your fault, Jeffries. You and the other scouts ought to have your wages docked. But we are the prefects. We’ll feast on horseflesh yet, or something better. Filet mignon would suit me, but I suppose we’ll have to see what’s on High Table.” At that moment Pipsqueak saw why some of the troop had been pointing eastward. From that direction there now came hoarse cries, and there was Clarénce again, and at his back a couple of score of others like him: long-limbed chinless goblins. They had a red eye on their prefect badges. Cedríc stepped forward to meet them. “So you’ve come back?” he said. “Thought better of it, eh?” “I’ve returned to see that Orders are carried out and the new boys safe,” answered Clarénce. “Indeed!” said Cedríc. “Waste of effort. I’ll see that orders are carried out in my prefecture. And what else did you come back for? You went in a hurry. Did you leave anything behind?” “I left a fool,” snarled Clarénce. “But there were some stout fellows with him who were too good to lose, especially if that cricket rematch against Gundabad hasn’t been cancelled. I knew you’d lead them into a mess. I’ve come to help them.” “Splendid!” laughed Cedríc. “But unless you’ve some guts for a scrap with the hoi polloi you’ve taken the wrong way. Tower was your road. The Whiteballs are coming. What’s happened to your precious Nazdaq? Has he had another mount impounded by the police for speeding? Now, if you’d brought him along, that might have been useful – if these Nazdaq are all they make out.” “Nazdaq, Nazdaq,” said Clarénce, shivering and licking his chops, as if the word had a foul taste that he savoured painfully. “You speak of what is deep beyond the reach of your muddy dreams, Cedríc,” he said. “Nazdaq! Ah! All that they make out! One day you’ll wish that you had not said that. Ape!” he snarled fiercely. “You ought to know that they’re the apple of the Great Eye, you numbskull, but you clearly haven’t done your Evil Economic Forces prep yet. But the winged Nazdaq: not yet, not yet. He won’t let them show themselves across the Great River yet, not before they’ve got their pilot’s licences. They’re for the Season – and other purposes, such as sky-writing.” “You seem to know a lot,” said Cedríc. “More than is good for you, I guess. Perhaps those in Tower might wonder how, and why, not to mention who, when, where and what. But in the meantime the Uruk-Hai of Guard House can do the dirty work, as usual. Don’t stand slavering there! For heaven’s sake get a handkerchief or something. You make me feel quite faint. The other swine are legging it to the forest, and you’d better follow. You wouldn’t get back to the Great River alive. Right off the mark! Now! I’ll be on your heels, and that,” he stamped on a small rock, which shattered completely, “will hurt.” The Guards seized Pipsqueak and Morrie, much to the indignation of the latter, who shouted something about his father. Then the troop started off. Hour after hour they ran, slinging the hobbits from one carrier to another, while others tried to tackle them. “No point wasting time that can be used for rugger practice,” Cedríc boomed. The Guards gradually passed through the Tower party, and soon they were gaining on the northerners as well. The forest began to draw nearer. Pipsqueak was bruised, torn, hung over and miserable. “Is this what all public schools are like?” he thought to himself. His father had put his name down for Dunharrow-on-the-Hill, but Pipsqueak had run away when he found out. Morrie, of course, had been to Wood Eaton: Pipsqueak supposed that he had learned his unquenchable self-confidence and brutal habits there. Much good was it doing him now, though, being thrown from one set of iron hands to another. This brought Pipsqueak some consolation, until a penalty was declared and he was kicked fifty yards through the air and bounced a further fifteen. In the afternoon Cedríc’s troop overtook the northerners. They were sneezing in the rays of the bright sun; their heads were down and their tongues were lolling out. One of them was searching for his anti- histamine spray. “Maggots!” jeered the Guards. “You’re cooked. The Whiteballs will catch you and kill you. They’re coming!” A cry from Clarénce showed that this was not mere jest. Horsemen, riding very swiftly, had indeed been sighted: still far behind but gaining on the goblins. They were waving polo mallets in the air. The Guards began to run with a redoubled pace that astonished Pipsqueak, a terrific spurt it seemed for the end of a race. Then he saw that the sun was sinking; shadows reached over the land. The Tower contingent lifted their heads and also began to put on speed. The forest was dark and close. The land was beginning to slope upwards, but the goblins did not halt. Both Cedríc and Clarénce shouted, spurring them on to a last effort. “They will make it yet. They will escape,” thought Pipsqueak in typically optimistic mood. Then his latest carrier managed to twist his neck, so that he ended up (in severe pain) glancing back over his shoulder. He saw that the riders away eastward were already level with the goblins, galloping over the plain. The sunset gilded their riding helmets and mallets. They were hemming the goblins in, preventing them from scattering, and driving them along the line of the river. He wondered very much what kind of folk they were. He wished now that he had learned more at Rivendell, or indeed anywhere at all, and looked more at maps and books and things; but in those days the plans for the journey seemed to be in more competent hands, namely those of everyone else, and he had never reckoned with being cut off from Gandalf, or from Strider, or Frodo, or Boromir™, or…All that he could remember about Rohan was that it was called Rohan. All things considered, that was not very much help. But better than nothing, as far as it went. “But how will they know that we are not goblins?” he thought, looking at Morrie’s wicked and sly face, and the uniform that they had once more forced him to wear. “I don’t suppose they’ve ever heard of hobbits down here, and if they have they probably want to kill us anyway because of our criminal network. I suppose I should be glad that the beastly goblins look like being destroyed, but that isn’t really much consolation is it?” A few of the riders appeared to be golfers, judging from the squires riding beside them bearing club-filled bags. Riding swiftly into range and then dismounting, they hit volleys of white balls (Pipsqueak was strangely relieved when he made the connexion) and the goblins that straggled behind, coughing and wheezing. Several of them fell, although given their level of fitness they were probably having heart attacks; then the riders wheeled out of range of the answering ink-pellets and paper aeroplanes of their enemies, who aimed wildly, not daring to halt. This happened many times, and on one occasion balls fell among the Guards. One of them, just in front of Pipsqueak, got hit in the temple and did not get up again. Night came down without the riders closing in for battle. Many goblins had fallen, but fully two hundred remained. In the early darkness the goblins came to a hillock, but did not know whether to eat it or talk to it, and so left it alone. The eaves of the forest were very near, probably no more than three furlongs away, but Pipsqueak didn’t know how long a furlong was, so that wasn’t very helpful. The horsemen had encircled them. A small band disobeyed Cedríc’s command, and began playing a vigorous march, until they were caned into submission. “Well, here we are,” sneered Clarénce. “Fine leadership! I hope the great Cedríc will lead us out again.” “Put those halflings down!” ordered Cedríc, taking no notice of Clarénce. “You, Eustáce, get two others and stand guard over them! They’re not to be killed unless the filthy Whiteballs break through. Understand? As long as I’m alive, I want ’em. But they’re not to cry out, and they’re not to be rescued. We were entrusted to being the new boys back to Guard House, and that’s what we’re going to do, whether they like it or not. Bind their legs!” The last part of the order was carried out mercilessly. But Pipsqueak found that for the first time he was close to Morrie. The goblins were making a great deal of noise, shouting and swishing their canes, and the hobbits managed to whisper together for a while. “Get your hands off my neck!” Morrie croaked. “I’ll have you dumped in the swamp with concrete shoes.” “Hobbits don’t wear shoes!” Pipsqueak replied instinctively. “A concrete waistcoat, then. Leave off!” Pipsqueak let go. Morrie coughed for a while, then hissed: “What did you expect? Look out for number one is my motto. They said they were there to recruit us into their school, and they seemed to think that tying you up was an appropriate initiation ritual. That’s public schoolboys for you. Anyway, I need to get to Isengard quickly, and this seemed like a good idea.” “Isengard? Are you mad?” “On the contrary, Isengard is the only reason I joined this stupid expedition in the first place. Do I look like the altruistic type? Do me a favour. Remember when my cousins Norbert and Clovis were found in the Woody End riddled with holes? That was Sackville-Baggins work. Young Lotho is getting some new kind of weapon shipped in from Isengard in return for some high-quality weed, and I need to close it down before we lose our investments in the Southfarthing completely.” “You are mad. You’ve travelled halfway across the continent, just to shut down a weapons smuggling operation? Well anyway, that’s all very well, but why am I here?” Just then, however, a savage kick warned Pipsqueak that the noise had died down, and the Guards were watchful. The night was cold and still. All round the knoll on which the goblins were gathered little watch-fires sprang up, golden-red in the darkness, a complete ring of them. “There is nothing between me and the wheel of fire,” Pipsqueak thought. They were within a long bowshot, but the goblins had no longbows. The riders made no sound. Later in the night when the moon came out of the mist, then they could occasionally be seen. “They’ll wait for the Sun, curse them!” growled one of the Guards. “Why don’t we get together and charge through? What’s old Cedríc think he’s doing, I should like to know?” “I daresay you would,” snarled Cedríc stepping up from behind. “Meaning I don’t think at all, eh? That’s five hours’ detention for you, Harrison. You’re just as bad as the other rabble: the maggots and the apes of Tower. No good trying to charge with them: they’d just squeal and bolt, and there are more than enough of these filthy middle-class fools to mop up our lot on the flat. Still, there’s one thing these fine fellows don’t know: Mauríce and his lads are in the forest, and they should turn up any time now.” Cedríc’s words were apparently enough to satisfy the Guards; but the other goblins were both dispirited and rebellious. They posted a few watchers, but most of them lay on the ground, resting in the pleasant darkness. It did indeed become very dark: the fires brought no light to the hillock, whatever it was. The riders were not, however, content merely to wait for the dawn and let their enemies rest. A sudden outcry on the east side of the knoll showed that something was wrong. It seemed that some of the men had riden in close, slipped off their horses, crawled to the edge of the camp and beaten several goblins to death with their one-irons before fading away again. Cedríc dashed off to stop a stampede. Pipsqueak and Morrie sat up. The Guards had gone with Cedríc. But if the hobbits had any thought of escape it was soon dashed. A long hairy arm took each of them by the neck and drew them close together, Dimly they were aware of Clarénce’s great head and hideous lack of chin between them. He began to paw them and feel them. Pipsqueak shuddered as hard cold fingers groped down his front. “Well, my little ones!” said Clarénce in a soft whisper. “Enjoying your nice rest? Or not? A little awkwardly placed, perhaps: canes and towels on one side, and nasty mallets on the other! Little people should not meddle in affairs that are too big for them.” His fingers continued to grope. There was a light like a pale but hot fire behind his eyes. The thought came suddenly into Pipsqueak’s mind, as if caught direct from the urgent thought of the enemy: “Clarénce knows about the Ring! He’s looking for it, while Cedríc is busy: he probably wants it for himself. Good heavens, I hope that’s what he’s after.” Cold fear was in Pipsqueak’s heart, yet at the same time he was wondering what use he could make of Clarénce’s desire. “I don’t think you will find it that way,” he whispered. “It isn’t easy to find.” “Find it?” said Clarénce: his fingers stopped crawling, much to Pipsqueak’s relief, and gripped his shoulder. “Find what? What are you talking about, little one?” “For a moment Pipsqueak was silent. Then suddenly in the darkness he made a noise in his throat: saddam, saddam. “Nothing, my precious,” he added, for good measure. The hobbits felt Clarénce’s fingers twitch. “O ho!” hissed the goblin softly. “So that’s what he means, is it? Very ve-ry dangerous, my little ones.” “Perhaps,” said Morrie, now alert and aware of Pipsqueak’s guess. “Perhaps, and not only for us. Still you know your own business best. Do you want it, or not? And what you give for it?” “Do I want it? Do I want it?” said Clarénce as if puzzled; but his arms were trembling. “What would I give for it? What do you mean?” “We mean,” said Pipsqueak, choosing his words carefully,”that it’s no good groping in the dark. We could save you time and trouble. But you must untie our legs first, or we’ll do nothing and tell all.” “My dear tender little fools,” hissed Clarénce, “everything you have, and everything you know, will be got out of you in due time: everything! You’ll wish there was more you could do to satisfy the Questioner, indeed you will: quite soon. We shan’t hurry the experience. Oh dear no! What do you think you’ve been kept alive for? My dear little fellows, please believe me when I say that it was not out of kindness: that’s not even one of Cedríc’s faults.” “I find it quite easy to believe,” said Morrie. “But you haven’t got your prey home yet.And it doesn’t seem to be going your way, whatever happens. If we come to Guard House, it won’t be Clarénce that benefits: Aruman will take all the pupils he can find if it’ll help him pay the rent. If you want anything for yourself, now’s the time to do a deal.” Clarénce began to lose his temper. The name of Aruman seemed specially to enrage him. Time was passing and the disturbance was dying down. Cedríc or the Guards might return at any minute. “Have you got it – either of you?” he snarled. “Saddam, saddam!” said Pipsqueak. “Untie our legs!” said Morrie. They felt the goblin’s arms trembling wildly. “Curse you, you filthy little vermin!” he hissed. “Untie your legs? I’ll untie every string in your bodies. Do you think I can’t search you to the bones? Search you! I’ll cut you both to quivering shreds. I don’t need the help of your legs to get you away – and have you all to myself!” “Wait!” shouted Pipsqueak. “Don’t you want our help in finding the Ring?” “Ring?? What on earth are you talking about, you pathetic shrimp?” Clarénce snapped. Pipsqueak was suddenly much, much more afraid. Suddenly he seized them. He tucked them one under each armpit and crushed them fiercely to his sides. Then he sprang forward, stooping low. Quickly and silently he went, till he came to the edge of the knoll. There, choosing a gap between the watchers, he passed like an evil shadow out into the night, down the slope and away westward towards the river that flowed out of the forest. In that direction there was a wide open space with only one fire. After going a dozen yards he halted, peering and listening. Nothing could be seen or heard. He crept slowly on. Then he stood up, as if to risk a sudden dash. At that very moment the dark form of a rider loomed up in front of him. “Nazdaq!” he shouted in surprise and alarm. It was his undoing. A polo mallet whistled through the air and dealt him a sharp crack on the skull. He gave a hideous shivering cry and lay still. The hobbits remained flat on the ground, too afraid to move. At last Morrie stirred and whispered softly: “I don’t even want to know what he was up to, but now we’ve got some sort of chance! But how are we to avoid being walloped?” The answer came almost immediately. From the yells and screeches that were coming from the knoll they guessed that their disappearance had been discovered. Then suddenly the answering cries of goblin-voices came from the right, outside the circle of watch-fires. Mauríce had apparently arrived and was attacking the besiegers with heavy-duty riding crops and several cats o’ nine tails. The riders were drawing in their ring close round the knoll so as to prevent any sortie, while a company rode off to deal with the newcomers. Suddenly Morrie and Pipsqueak realised that without moving they were now outside the circle: there was nothing between them and escape. “Now,” said Morrie, “if only we had our legs and hands free, we might get away.” “I was going to tell you: I’ve managed to free my hands. These loops are only left for show.” Pipsqueak tugged at the string, only to find that he had just unwittingly made the knot fast. Morrie said a word, then pulled a stiletto from his heel (“Don’t ask,” he warned his astonished cousin) and cut the bonds. The hobbits then sat and ate two or three Twinkies, until Morrie realised how stupid that was and gestured for Pipsqueak to get a move on. They crawled. The turf was deep and yielding, but it was a long slow business. They reached the edge if the river, then looked back. The sounds had died away. Evidently Mauríce and his lads had been killed or driven off. Already the night was old. In the east the sky was beginning to grow pale. “We must get under cover,” said Pipsqueak, “or we shall be seen. It won’t be any comfort to us if the riders only find out we aren’t goblins when we’re dead. I could stagger on now. What about you, Morrie?” Morrie got up. “Yes,” he said. “I can manage it. Twinkies do put heart into you: it must be all the life-enhancing E-numbers and preservatives. Damn, I have such a hangover. I need a drink.” They turned and walked side by side slowly along the line of the river. “You seem to have been doing well for yourself, Master Took,” said Morrie. “You aren’t a total moron after all! Your father will be pleased.” Pipsqueak looked puzzled. “Do you not yet understand, Pipistrel Took? Your father paid me a handsome sum to train you up to become a decent criminal mastermind like the rest of your family. I thought he was throwing his money away, but it looks as though you may shape up yet. “But Cousin Brandybuck is going in front now, because for all that you still have absolutely no idea where we are, do you? That’s what you get for not getting a decent education. We are walking along the Entwash: in front of us is Fangorn Forest.” “Lead on, Moribund!” said Pipsqueak. “If you have any idea where you’re going, which I doubt.” ”I am going to Isengard, as I told you,” Morrie snapped. “Now shut up if you don’t want a dagger in your guts. We can take a short-cut through the forest. Just don’t do anything stupid.” “I won’t,” said Pipsqueak, lighting a cigarette and throwing the lit match away. The two of them made their way into the forest under the huge branches. They looked back across the river, and with the dawn the riders charged, waving their mallets, and launching a rain of golf-balls. “That’s what you get if you trample on the pride and golf courses of the aspiring middle class,” Morrie observed. “The highest echelon of goblin society has had it: Sam would be ecstatic.” He shuddered, and turned away. So it was that they did not see the last stand, when Cedríc was overtaken and brought to bay at the very edge of Fangorn. There he was slain at last by Eowynn, who dismounted and beat him repeatedly in the head with a sand wedge. Then when they had laid their fallen comrades in a mound, the riders made a great fire and scattered the ashes of their enemies. So ended the longest cross-country run in the history of public schooling, and no news of it came ever back either to Tower or to Guard House. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “Hey, look at this!” Morrie shouted. He pointed at a goblin that looked as though it had been trampled to death by a pair of very large and very heavy feet. Next to it was a violin-case. Morrie picked it up. “It suits you,” remarked Pipsqueak, not knowing what else to say. Morrie grinned. He stood silent for a moment, then observed, “Didn’t those goblins seem a bit stiff, or scratchy to you?” “I don’t know any more than you do about that,” said Pipsqueak innocently. “After all, you were the one who went to a public school.” “What are you implying?” Morrie demanded querulously. They disappeared into the forest. *THE BYWATER SMILE This was Shire slang for an expertly slit throat, not to be confused with the Tuckborough grin, which under optimum conditions required a corkscrew, an ell of twine and three enraged pigs, or the Scary grimace, which was a particularly unnerving expression. In the past, Morrie had crafted some great smiles. These were not up to his usual standard, but still effective. NOTES: No, I didn’t go to a public school. The ‘scouts’ are a reference to the cleaning staff of Oxford University colleges, who go by that name. I don’t think they kill people anymore. But I could be wrong. Tribimat ... and there we go! Varnast -- Hurray! 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